


Love in the Time of Winter Colds

by imagined_melody



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_melody/pseuds/imagined_melody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to my fic "Sick Day." In which Christmas rolls around, Enjolras is sick as per usual, and a super-fluffy holiday celebration is had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in the Time of Winter Colds

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely (and very patient, I might add) anon on my previous Combeferre/Enjolras sickfic requested a companion piece from Combeferre's perspective, because I mentioned in that fic that Enjolras gets sick at the drop of a hat, and the anon wanted to hear more about that. In a lot of fanworks, it's mentioned that Enjolras can get so wrapped up in the cause/justice/revolution/Patria that he forgets his basic human needs, so I was kind of playing off that. This may or may not be what you wanted, anon- the first half is definitely fluffy sickfic, but then a small bit of smut happened, and then a secondary Joly/Bossuet pairing snuck its way in there, and then I tacked on an epilogue from Enjolras' POV that gave me hell because I couldn't think of a non-cliche way to end it. (I'm still not 100% pleased with the way it turned out, but oh well.) So I hope you like all that as well as the stuff you actually prompted me for. :)
> 
> This fic also features possibly my worst title ever, but I COULD NOT think of anything else to call it. Yes, it's a play on the title of the film "Love in the Time of Cholera," except I swapped "cholera" with "winter colds." Just enjoy the bad pun. ;)
> 
> Notes about this AU: Enjolras and Combeferre have been together for three years at this point. Combeferre and Joly work at an urgent care clinic, and Enjolras is a college professor. I haven't decided what Bossuet does yet, but he is a pretty damn good cook, although that's not his career.

The week before Christmas, Enjolras was sick.

Combeferre had tried to prevent it, as he always did. It was a natural instinct for him to carefully monitor how well Enjolras was taking care of himself, and not just because they were lovers. Enjolras was notorious for becoming so immersed in his work that he neglected his basic bodily needs, such as eating and sleeping properly. Almost immediately when they first became friends, Combeferre had taken it upon himself to ensure that the other man was fed and showered and well rested– because after all, _someone_ had to do it. 

At first he had tried to be subtle, so that Enjolras would not notice that he was being managed in this way. But he soon learned that such subtlety would not work on Enjolras. Before long Combeferre was deliberate about placing the food directly in front of his boyfriend, sometimes arranging the fork in the hand that was not being used for writing until Enjolras looked up and smiled and switched it to his dominant hand, taking a break to skim his notes while he ate. He managed to intercept Enjolras, more often than not, before he fell asleep sitting up at his desk or watching TV on the couch. And, of course, showering together proved more than enough incentive to keep the man clean.

But there were periods where even Combeferre’s vigilance could not prevent illness from descending on Enjolras. The days leading up to Christmas were busy for both of them. Enjolras spent endless hours in his office at the university, grading the long burdensome papers which he was famous for assigning. Combeferre himself was swamped with shifts at the clinic, where he was covering for the co-workers who took off extra days to travel for the holidays. (He and Enjolras preferred to celebrate quietly as a pair, occasionally having friends over if any were staying local.) The result was that any mothering Combeferre tried to do had to be conducted from a distance, and he suspected– from personal experience– that his advice and prodding was not always followed as closely as he would wish.

He poked at his phone on his break, texting Enjolras. _I hope you are having lunch right now._

It was several minutes before he received Enjolras’ reply. _You know I am. I just saw Jehan. I’m surprised he hasn’t already talked to you._

Combeferre frowned. _Did he stay to make sure you ate?_

He could almost see Enjolras’ eye roll through the text he received back. _He didn’t need to, ‘Ferre. Prouvaire had to go lead a lecture, but he watched me eat half the sandwich. Happy?_

 _Very. Happier if you eat the other half,_ Combeferre sent back pointedly. _I know it’s been sitting there since he left._

He only received back a perfunctory _Fine_ , but felt satisfied enough that Enjolras would heed his advice. Breathing a slight sigh of relief, he turned back to his desk, noticing that it was only a matter of minutes before he had to go back to his patients. Caring for Enjolras could be a full-time job, though one that Combeferre was more than willing to undertake. 

That night, sitting next to each other in bed, he heard Enjolras make a small muffled sound behind his hand, then another– then, a minute later, yet another. It was a cough, and a poorly concealed one at that. Combeferre’s eyes met Enjolras’. He raised one eyebrow. Enjolras cleared his throat uncomfortably and went back to his reading.

The next morning the cough was slightly more pronounced, harder to cover up– not that Enjolras had ever been particularly good at fooling Combeferre, but that didn’t stop him from trying. At breakfast he stoically attempted to keep himself from sniffling and rubbing his eyes. Combeferre shook his head and tried not to laugh while Enjolras had his back turned. Enjolras’ predicament was not amusing, but his futile desire to disguise it certainly could be. 

On Enjolras’ way out the door, Combeferre quietly bundled the man’s scarf a little tighter around his neck, and made sure he took a travel mug of tea with him instead of his usual obscenely strong coffee. Enjolras rolled his eyes and kissed Combeferre on the forehead, as much a thank you as an attempt at placating him. “Just a cough,” he reminded him gently, with only a hint of exasperation in his voice.

As much as Combeferre wanted to stave off his boyfriend’s oncoming cold, he realized that events had been set in motion at this point. There was little he could do other than make tea, keep Enjolras wrapped up in blankets even when he did not want to be (and force him into extra sweaters whenever he insisted on moving around), and let him curl up against him when chills or fever made him weak and oversensitive. Which they did, two days later, when the cold progressed to a full-blown infection.

Enjolras did not like admitting when he didn’t feel well; he was reticent when in pain, and being sick made him depressed since he craved the extra care but hated to ask for it. After a few years together, though, Combeferre had become an expert at intuiting exactly what Enjolras needed most and providing it without the request being spoken. He knew Enjolras was grateful for it, even though the man never said; the way he accepted the comfort without protest or bravado, and the equally generous way he cared for Combeferre when he was in the same position, told him all of that and more.

Thankfully the semester had ended, and Enjolras could stay at home, rather than having to come into his office at the college. Combeferre insisted that Enjolras could write the next semester’s syllabus from home– preferably while resting on the couch. One evening Combeferre came home and placed something on the table next to Enjolras, pressing a kiss hello to his temple as he did so. “Consider it an early Christmas gift,” Combeferre said as he took off his coat. “I think you can guess from whom.”

Enjolras looked in the bag. It contained a sizable helping of throat lozenges and a plastic container of something that smelled enticingly like Bossuet’s chicken noodle soup. “Joly?” he asked, emptying the bag out on the dining room table.

“Mm-hmm,” Combeferre said. “Along with a lot of scolding that I was meant to pass on to you, I might add. He is convinced that you exist in his life purely to give him heart palpitations.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, he seems to feel that way about you and Bossuet both.”

Enjolras smirked. Between his propensity towards illness and Bossuet’s remarkable bad luck, Joly’s worrying instincts were often on overdrive. “Have we invited them for Christmas yet?” he asked. The two were the only others among their friends who frequently stayed home for the holidays.

Combeferre gave another affirmative sound. “Joly says they will be there for dinner at three,” he informed his partner. “If we are very lucky, Laigle will bring those peppermint cookies you like so much.”

By December 22nd, Enjolras was a miserable sight to see. A sore throat had settled in, the product of many days of coughing; the cough itself, still lingering, had turned into a rasping and full-throated thing that made every spoken word come out gravelly and tight. He got very little rest at night– sleeping with his mouth closed was impossible with the congestion that had settled firmly into his sinuses, and sleeping with his mouth open made his throat uncomfortably dry, further irritating the already inflamed area. He reluctantly let Combeferre examine him; the man pronounced that this was the worst stage of the cold, and he would begin to improve from then on. Enjolras merely huffed and curled himself further into the blankets, but he nearly purred from relief when Combeferre silently laid a cool cloth on his forehead to lower his slight fever and switched on the television before kissing his cheek and heading to work.

Christmas Day was clear and cold, and thankfully snow-less; Enjolras was in no state to do tasks like shoveling snow, and Combeferre was eager to just stay in bed with him rather than tend to more everyday things. He woke up well before Enjolras– the man had crested the worst of his symptoms in the day or two prior, and was now passed out in a nest of blankets and pillows, catching up on the sleep that had been piecemeal and restless for the past several days. Combeferre got carefully out of bed, made himself some tea, and then climbed back in to enjoy the hot drink while he waited for Enjolras to wake up. The other man did not so much as stir throughout all of his movement about the house.

It was mid-morning when Enjolras finally began to wake. Combeferre had long since finished his tea and was paging through a book when he felt the bed shift with Enjolras’s rolling over. He looked over to see his lover’s eyes blinking open. “Morning,” he said softly, his voice colored with fondness.

Enjolras cleared his throat raspily and offered a weak smile. “Merry Christmas,” he said hazily, the syllables blurring together with sleepiness and the leftover remnants of his sickness. Combeferre leaned down to kiss him, and Enjolras returned it, but after they parted he frowned a little. “Don’t want you getting sick.”

“You’re not contagious anymore,” Combeferre pointed out. “And I’ve been sleeping in the same bed with you every day. If I was going to catch this, it would’ve happened already.” He did not mention that his immune system was much superior to Enjolras’s; only on a select few occasions had Combeferre ever been laid up with an illness he’d gotten from Enjolras, whereas the other man nearly always caught anything Combeferre had, even if it was as small as a head cold. “Besides, I intended to get a lot closer to you than that in a minute.”

Enjolras grinned. “You did?” He sniffled. The sound added a pitiful edge to what would otherwise have been a sexy conversation.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you well enough for that?”

“Well, I was hoping,” Enjolras admitted. “Don’t know how exciting I’ll be, but I definitely want you.” And now there was that slight low growl to his voice, the aroused tone that mixed interestingly with the way his vocal cords were already strained from coughing. 

“Well, luckily for you,” Combeferre said, pressing up against Enjolras’s side so he could feel his stirring arousal and leaning their faces in close, “I am so far gone on you that I find you exciting even when you are a mess.” He kissed Enjolras’s face– the skin next to one eye, the bridge of his nose, the line of his jaw– until the other man whined and chased his lips, hungry for the small press of contact Combeferre was teasing him with.

“Lucky for me,” Enjolras agreed breathily when they parted again, pulling Combeferre down on top of him.

Despite Enjolras’s imminent recovery, Combeferre privately doubted he was well enough for the full-on exertions of intercourse, either giving or receiving; it was best, he thought, to let the man rest. Instead he grabbed the lube from the bedside table and used it to slick them until they were slippery. Then he took them both in his hand and started a careful, steady rhythm. Enjolras’s head fell back on the pillow and he arched into the movement. Combeferre kept it up, the same exact pace, until it seemed that Enjolras was adjusting and moving in time with it. Then he switched it up, adding a little twist or a new point of contact, just to watch how it threw Enjolras off. Within minutes Enjolras was gasping on the bed, squirming at how good the contact was, his thigh trembling slightly.

Combeferre had every intention of making Enjolras come first, but as it turned out, he himself was feeling hornier than he had realized. He was on the edge in the blink of an eye– one minute immersed in the act itself, the other on the brink of release– and with a shudder and a whispered “ _Oh_ ,” he came before he could stop himself. Enjolras’s eyes glazed over at the sight; for reasons Combeferre couldn’t fathom, the sight of him climaxing was an intense turn-on for Enjolras. His fingers of his left hand twitched against Combeferre’s arm in a restless caress as his right hand joined Combeferre’s on his pulsing erection, stroking him rapidly through an orgasm that lasted for several seconds and left Combeferre breathless on the bed.

Enjolras let him recover a little before his fingers’ gentle movements turned more urgent. In response, Combeferre grabbed a corner of the bedsheet and quickly cleaned off Enjolras’s erection, causing a tremor to run through the other man’s body at the somewhat rough friction on his cock. Enjolras gazed down at him, puzzled, but only for a moment, because in the next second Combeferre had cast the soiled fabric aside and wrapped his mouth around the man in a smooth motion, now that the unpleasant-tasting lube had been wiped off. He moaned loudly, fingers clenching in Combeferre’s hair, and muttered, “Oh God, ‘Ferre, I’m close. Please.”

Combeferre hummed and sucked harder, and within moments he felt Enjolras’s release coursing into his mouth, which he swallowed with the ease of someone who has done it many times before. Enjolras shuddered and did a decent job keeping his hips from jolting up and choking Combeferre. He pulled off just as Enjolras’s labored exhalations from climax turned into a coughing fit, the man’s irritated throat protesting the sudden change in the pace of his breathing. He shuddered momentarily on the bed as Combeferre stroked over his thigh, overstimulated by the conflicting sensations of his orgasm ending amidst a bout of coughing. 

As he caught his breath, Combeferre slid up to lean over him. “Sexy,” he commented teasingly with a smile, which grew as Enjolras rolled his eyes and roughly grabbed a handful of his ass.

“C’mere, smartass,” Enjolras growled, dragging him closer and then tickling him until Combeferre thrashed on the bed and panted so hard he was almost coughing himself. When he let up the man was flushed and languid on the bed beside him, breathing in long heavy pulls of air and grinning. It struck him as a beautiful sight. “Merry Christmas,” he told him again, stroking his arm in a gentle caress.

“Merry Christmas,” Combeferre replied sincerely, before his smile turned mischievous again. “Now get some water, because you sound like a 13-year-old boy right now, and then let’s open presents.”

The morning passed in a flurry of gifts and coffee (liberally spiked with Bailey’s, because after all, they said, “It is a holiday,”) and making out on the couch by the Christmas tree. At noon Combeferre started making dinner, in exchange for Enjolras cleaning up the living room, which was currently strewn with wrapping paper and decorative bows. (He put one in Combeferre’s hair while the man prepped green bean casserole; Combeferre shook his head vigorously in an attempt to dislodge it, but left it in place when it did not shake free, smiling quietly to himself at the rare moment of silliness from his partner. The expression became a sympathetic grimace when he heard Enjolras coughing from the next room.)

Joly and Bossuet showed up precisely at three, both wrapped in multiple thick layers of outerwear against the cold and carrying gifts and contributions of food. Bossuet pressed one particular item into Enjolras’ hand when he met them at the door. “Joly said you might need something to soothe your throat,” he said with a wink, and Enjolras opened the tin to find a batch of holiday peppermint cookies arranged inside.

Enjolras smiled. “And here I thought Joly was the doctor in your house,” he teased.

Joly heard him from the kitchen and laughed. “If only those were the remedies I were allowed to prescribe!”

Combeferre was not the sort of host who refused help from his guests; when Bossuet entered the kitchen, inquiring what still needed to be done, he readily allowed the man to help chop vegetables and check on the meat in the oven. Joly and Enjolras hung back at the table, watching their partners cook and goading them into conversation when they became too focused on their task. Joly did insist on checking up on Enjolras’ health, performing a cursory examination of his throat and feeling for a fever before reluctantly pronouncing him on the mend. His half-hearted comment of “You should be _resting_ , Enjolras” went unheeded, and elicited nothing but a brief snicker from both Combeferre and Bossuet at Joly’s motherliness.

“He does this to me all the time, Enjolras,” Bossuet reassured as he sliced up a carrot to add to one of the side dishes. “I have never been more grateful not to be predisposed toward sickness.”

“If only you were not so prone to injury,” Joly grumbled, and Bossuet laughed out loud, leaning over to kiss the nervous man and feed him a bite of celery. (Later, when Bossuet’s hand accidentally grazed the oven rack and left the slight welt of a burn, he winced and allowed Joly to run water over it, though the injury was minor. The way Joly held the stinging hand so tenderly in his own, and the furrow of his brow as his eyes scanned the mark, spoke so much of love that it was impossible to hold his overbearing protectiveness against him. Bossuet’s eyes, softening at the affectionate care, were a clear sign that he felt the same way.)

Dinner was an intimate affair– the roast beef and gravy which had been Combeferre’s family’s Christmas tradition since he was small, and green bean casserole, and potatoes with carrots and celery, along with the desserts Joly and Bossuet had contributed. (In addition to the peppermint cookies, they had brought gingerbread pieces and vanilla-bean French shortbread circles that Bossuet said his grandmother had taught him to make.) During the meal there was wine, and afterward Combeferre heated up some homemade, spiced apple cider wassail and brought it into the living room for them to drink while they sat in the dim light coming from the Christmas tree. Their guests left when Joly started nodding off against Bossuet’s shoulder, sleepy from both the alcohol and the excitement of the holiday. Bossuet trailed ticklish-light fingers across the man’s neck to wake him, and then packed up their food containers and nudged him out the door, shouts of thanks and “Happy Christmas” following in their wake.

The dishes were taken care of in short order with two pairs of hands doing them; Combeferre and Enjolras didn’t believe in designating one person for washing and one for drying, instead choosing to pitch in equally on both duties and sidestep one another for space at the sink. Once the house was clean and quiet again, the faint light from the tree in the living room was too enticing to ignore, and they settled there once again, Combeferre stretched against the arm of the couch with Enjolras curled up next to him.

Combeferre traced lazy circles into Enjolras’ chest, feeling the vibrations against his fingers as the blonde man hummed in response. His eyes were slipping shut just as Joly’s had been not long before; he pressed his nose into Combeferre’s arm, body lax and sleepy, still not at full health but much improved through rest and laughter, good food and good company. _The best remedies, indeed,_ Combeferre mused, leaning down to let the man’s light curls tickle his nose. From then on, time passed unnoticed by both men, lost in love and the holiday and each other.

—

**EPILOGUE**

Enjolras woke up some time later to the sound of Combeferre’s soft voice above him; it took him a second to realize he was no longer tucked up against the man’s warm body, instead spread across the couch with a blanket laid overtop of him. “Enjolras,” Combeferre murmured. “Enjolras, love, wake up. It’s time for me to go to work.”

Enjolras groaned slightly and blinked his eyes half-open. Part of the reason they (and Joly) stayed home during the holidays was so that Combeferre and Joly could help staff the clinic on Christmas, when most of the usual employees were visiting family or otherwise celebrating. Joly had taken a morning shift, Combeferre the nighttime one. He shifted on the couch, and Combeferre said, “Don’t go back to sleep, I left something on the table for you.” A kiss was laid on his forehead; Enjolras blindly fumbled for Combeferre’s neck and managed to drag him down for a poorly aimed attempt at connecting their lips together, nearly missing before Combeferre guided him in at a different angle.

“Merry Christmas,” he sighed, and heard the words repeated back to him before Combeferre moved away. A minute later the door shut behind him, leaving a gust of winter air in his wake.

Enjolras struggled to keep awake. When he managed to fully open his eyes, he looked at the coffee table in front of him. On it was a mug of hot cocoa, steaming merrily, and a candy cane (Enjolras smirked, albeit still blearily, at the implication he was making by leaving him peppermint and hot beverages; he knew he still sounded hoarse from the cough). A Post-It note next to the items simply read, _Merry Christmas._

He took the mug and stood at the window, looking out at the cold and quiet night. The flat still smelled of roast meat and spiced apple cider, and the silky cocoa soothed his tired throat in just the right way. Christmas tree lights glittered behind him, and softly flickered from the houses around them. A few days before, Combeferre had arranged pine garlands on the window ledges, so the faint scent of pine mingled with the air in the rest of the house.

Combeferre would get home late that night. He would be cold from the freezing weather, tired from hours of tending to the sick and hurt and overly drunk patients that populate an urgent care clinic on Christmas night. He would climb into bed, where Enjolras would be waiting for him, and the two of them would curl together and say little or nothing– just listen to the night still and serene around them. Christmas always ended like this for them; quietly, intimately. 

Enjolras was volatile, more often than not. He was fire and justice and revolution, and he was prone to letting his passions consume him if he was not careful. But on nights like this, he belonged totally to Combeferre– kind, nurturing Combeferre. His lover. His guide.

Three years in, he thought as he watched the street outside, cocoa warming his throat and cooling in the mug in his hands, and there was still nowhere he would rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> I should also mention that, even before my struggles with the ending and the title, this fic was held up for a long time because I haven't written smut in ages, and for some reason I seem to have gotten shy about it. By which I mean, every time I wrote the word "cock" I would blush and erase it, even though I've written far filthier things in the past. Luckily I got over myself and the sex scene made it into the fic.


End file.
